was enough. He pressed the button of his intercom and called for Phyllis.
An hour later he had some of the information he needed. Phyllis had called the state hospital and found that Duncan Brewer's condition was unchanged and that he had not had a visitor in over six months. She then called St. Andrew's Hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. No, the hospital did not have a recent patient named Baker, but yes, there was a Brewer who was released on Tuesday, a Trissa Brewer, Mrs. Nicholas Brewer. Phyllis had had no luck cajoling them into providing an address, so Fitapaldi had called an old classmate from the University of Michigan who had worked at St. Andrew's for years, Richard Poe.
What Poe had to tell him was helpful but alarming. He remembered that particular case because he had been called in to consult. The attending physician suspected that the young woman's injuries were not accidental as she and her husband insisted. Poe had advised that the case be turned over to Social Services, and, apparently, the resident was mistaken because the woman was released without delay. Poe had not seen the woman or her husband, so he could not describe them. He promised to have the Social Services caseworker call him with the address of the patient.
Fitapaldi had nothing to do then but wait. It was just as well. He had two patients in crisis and could not leave town. This letter from Brewer, or Baker as he sometimes called himself, was puzzling but he could not allow it to override his responsibilities to his actual patients. Brewer had refused his help in the past. Maybe this plea was no more than it professed to be, a request for a clerical service, nothing more.
It was not terribly surprising that Cole would forget to provide the address. The man was so engaged in erasing the horrors of his past that the trivial details of the present sometimes slipped away from him. What did surprise him was that Cole would marry. He had always been a zealous isolate. Fitapaldi scanned the notes in Brewer's file to find the exact answer Cole had given him on his last visit when he had asked if there weren't anyone in his life who might care to see that he got help.
"Don't worry. No one ever gets close enough for that. I make sure of it. The victims of Duncan Brewer have ended with me. It is just that I haven't reached the convenience of being buried and forgotten like the rest. But that will come. Eventually."
Fitapaldi rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand and plucked at his bristly eyebrows. He reread Cole's note then dropped it in the file. The possibility he had married was difficult to imagine. The suspicion he might have beaten his wife was unfathomable. He had never considered Cole a danger to anyone but himself. When he had warned him of that self-directed danger, Cole had answered "The danger is as minimal as the victim is meaningless."
Suicidal, maybe. But homicidal, never! Cole Brewer was not his father. Fitapaldi would stake his reputation on that. He tossed the file into the tray and called for his next patient. As soon as he got the address and as soon as he could get away, he would check on Cole Brewer. There was nothing that could be done until then.
*****
Trissa woke first on Saturday. Despite all her preparation and all the boarders' help, she was anxious about her exams. And she was nervous about going back to school looking like she did. If anything, the bruises were uglier than ever, like rainbows from hell. Even though no one would be there but Miss Royal who Nicholas had charmed into agreeing to come in on a Saturday to proctor her makeup tests, she feared the advisor's reaction. If she looked repulsed or disgusted, Trissa was not sure she would be able to concentrate on her work. Though Nicholas had coached her thoroughly in the story he had told at school, Trissa was sure she would say or do something that would arouse Miss Royal's suspicions.
As quietly as possible, Trissa tiptoed about washing up and getting dressed. Nicholas seemed dead to the world. His head was buried beneath his pillow and his fingertips were the only part of his body visible above the tartan coverlet. His muffled snoring made her picture him as a great Scottish dragon under the plaid, which she dare not awaken